Knickerless Indian women have stormed a luxury hotel, where suspected Muslims were holding a religious festival, to release the Western tourists caught in the festivities.
"It was horrible. I looked up the traditional dress of this curry-muncher. It was nothing like the movies. It was like looking at a very hairy train-wreck," one distraught survivor recounted.
"The Muslims were enjoying a special day in their calendar: Everybody Wear Pants Day. Then the Indian ladies broke down the door and flashed their badgers," said another recovering alcoholic.
"We knew who they were. There was really no need for them to show us their...I'm sorry. They really...sorry. It was awful. I thought I was going to throw up," another clearly offended victim said.
"I'm not a fully practising Muslim but even I knew that this is a very special part of their religion. To make such a mockery of my beliefs was truly appalling," a bespectacled and bearded survivor told.
"What I've just seen will stay with me for the rest of my life. It just so happened that I had my camera with me. I rushed off to the tattooist to get it painted onto my palm," a clearly shaking Westerner said.
"We were conducting our religious festival when this woman with no pants and no underwear and no razor broke down the door. It looked like my uncle Javed Miandad," a dead Muslim told Allah.
Emergency supplies of Bonds have been shipped to Mumbai, along with Ambassador Pat Rafter, to try and ease the tension and give support to the clearly sagging internal strife affecting Indians.
The bloody slaughters in Mumbai are a small price to pay for the well-being of, Soviet spy and ex-partner of Cleric Newton, Satchwell, believe those who religiously watch Neighbours.
"We've been watching them for many years. All I can say is that as long as Westerners are in it, we'll be passionately interested. If not, then not," the religious watcher said as they all switched off.
Cleric Matthew Newton, a violent idealogue and ham-fisted funnyman, is believed to have tracked down Satchwell in Mumbai before launching an attack on the Hotel where she was staying.
"Look, things got a bit out of hand," Cleric Newton said, "We only wanted to scare people. Nobody was supposed to get hurt. Except that spying bitch. What I do in the shower is no-one's business."
Soviet Spy Satchwell, at least half a horse, was residing in the run-down hotel to escape a busy schedule and the limelight but, most of all her psychotic spiritual advisor, Newton, when disaster struck.
"I was watching televison in bed with a celebrity magazine, admiring my reflection in the television, when the power went out. I went out into the lobby and all these other people were screaming."
"They must have been watching a rerun of Neighbours when the power went out because they were extremely upset. Anyway I found the manager, but he seemed to have a hole in the head, or something."
"Luckily enough, there behind the desk was a copy of New Idea. So I took it upstairs and went right to the back to look for my name. It wasn't even there. Then the power came back on. It was quite an ordeal."
The rampage, orchestrated by the multi-talented Newton, included a volley of very predictable jokes, sight-gags, and relied more on the delivery than the material, which causes terrible injuries.
Reports to the contrary have been reported by reporters, wth one saying, "Newton is even more genuine than his late father, Andrew Peacock," and "Cleric Newton will kill you too," but, others tell a different story
"She killed everyone after she realised her name wasn't mentioned. But she had a two-page spread! This tragedy could have been averted if only they had made mention of her on the front," the cleaning lady said.
Jailed for life, A MAN, who fathered nine children with his two daughters, whom he subjected to decades of rape, has been subjected to decades of rape.
"It was just awful. To see my own daughters treated like that. What made it worse was it was me. I don't think I'll ever be the same," the man, a penis and testicles hanging about, said.
"What victims of rape don't seem to understand is the trauma that the perpertartor suffers at the hands, mouth, vagina and anus of their victims," an advocate for men's issues said.
"I've spoken to this gentleman at great length. I wasn't going to get too close. He had a very amourous look in his pants. The years of abuse were a cry for help," she maintains.
"The man's daughters still don't know a good thing when they see it. It's very Freudian to sleep with your daughters. At least he doesn't believe in abortion," she went on.
"I don't believe in abortion. It's a bit like evolution. I don't believe in that either. Hell, I don't even believe in computers. At least I believe in repenting on my deathbed," the father said.
"I can say that I believe in honesty. I've always maintained that a man is a filthy animal. I was only doing what every father wants to do. It's only natural," the trauma-victim said.
The man, facing a lifetime in jail, can look forward to being on the good end of rape for many years to come at the hands and erection of some rather large gentleman called Boris.
This is where the mandatory image goes.
To write like this takes a lot of effort on my part. It doesn't matter what anyone says I might dare to write a really long sentence that doesn't seem to end until suddenly without warning it does. We call this silly. It's silly to think otherwise.
This is the second paragraph. Often times I'll launch into the main argument that is rattling around in my head in this section. Mostly I'll take a pot shot or two at ideas and sometimes I'll attack people. Occasionally I'll just make this paragraph really long and out of proportion with the rest of the piece. It doesn't worry me that it might seem that I'm coming unhinged in this paragaph. I might even like to throw in a quote or two. Sometimes I go off in that direction and never come back.
I think an ad would do well here.
You might think that you can argue me down. It's all right. I might make a little joke somewhere in here. Be on the lookout for it. If you're not paying attention you might lose the thread of my contention. I know I do. I might throw in a quote or two here. Even try another gag. It might seem like I'm a bit agitated about something. I won't talk about the real reason. It's a personal matter. I might need another image.
This is where the next image goes. It breaks up the monotony.
I forgot where I was because I was inserting an image. Does that ever happen to you? I think I'll be true to time and concede that by veering off here. But I better make a really strong point that will hurt those who've hurt me. I hope that those that share my viewpoint will continue to do so. I'll make out like I just don't care. If I seem defensive it's because I've no other choice.
Things could take on a strange shape here.
Might do a few lines like this. I'm not sure why.
Maybe one slightly longer one with a particularly valid point about the matter at hand. I needed that full stop. That was getting a bit long.
I think it's best if images are kept that way. The last thing you should be doing when reading is scratching your arsehole with a pencil-sharpener. A bit of prop-comedy. Sorry, that was me. I do apologise.
Reason and rage are my favourite combination. Speaking of images, I just made a comma. Remember when I used an exclamation point that time? Oh, the joy! I need to go to the bathroom. Can you hang on? I'm back now. I feel much better now. Time for some imagery.
How about another image? This is where it goes.
So I've nearly finished. You should probably think about what you've just read. Chances are you know how to reason too. You might take offence if I act a little strangely at times. Let's reminisce and have some intercourse.
You don't mind if I come out on top? Do you?
I won't let any insubordination go unpunished.
A report has found, some Muslim imams condone rape and domestic violence within marriage, exploitation of women, welfare fraud and polygamy and even Catholicism.
The report, commissioned by Mel Gibson, found that many imams believed Catholicism was the one true faith and many conceded that Mohammed was "really annoying".
It also reveals that rape and domestic violence are the result of problems with alcohol. "They don't drink enough," Gibson told his wife, as he had a little bit of adultery.
"I have a real problem that many Muslims get married to more than one woman. That doesn't leave me with much," one of Gibson's flock said, getting smashed and pointing the finger.
The report also had some good news for Communists: yes, you can expect an after-lifetime in Hell with a pitchfork up your bottom and a jar of acid on your genitals.
"I wish I could be so lucky!" one homosexual, confronting children with their sexuality, said as the RSL confronted children with killing someone you've never even met before.
"I can understand why you'd want to kill you're wife," a communist told Gibson, when he met his wife for the first time. "What is she, a Muslim or something?"
Atheists, Communists the lot, didn't escape the reports findings either, with one imam saying that "I'd like to know how anyone can conduct a moral life without religion?".
Sports lovers, all the traits of religious zealots, did escape the report, but only after a media-circus convicted them, before they had a fair hearing before a bunch of clowns.
A court has been told a man with his penis in a pasta sauce jar was caught by police, while resisting arrest, still pleasuring himself.
The Newcastle Herald reports: after New South Wales man Keith Roy Weatherley, 46, led them on a brief, slow-speed car chase, Police drew their weapons.
Newcastle Local Court was told yesterday that, while he was parked in a no-stopping zone near Nobby's Beach on October 26 Weatherley caught the eyes of police.
The Herald said, because they saw him doing something with his hands in his lap and making funny faces, Police thought he might have a weapon.
They found him partially clothed with his genitals in a jar and a cross hanging off the mirror, a police statement said.
The court was told, time and time again, that's when the pursuit began.
Four officers used batons and capsicum spray to take him out for "a nice meal" when Weatherley refused to leave his car after he was stopped.
He attempted to continue "pleasuring himself in between bouts of wrestling and grating the cheese" and they found a 750mm jar around his weapon.
A search of Weatherly's car uncovered pornography, a homemade sex aid, women's stockings and a Jack Russell terrier but, no other small domesticated animals, except a budgie.
Weatherley pleaded not guilty to offensive behaviour, resisting police, enjoying being sprayed with capsicum and disobeying his mother.
He was convicted, ordered to eat only from cans and fined $600 before being put in handcuffs, which his lawyer Jose said was "just a fine with him".
The damage caused by fires in California have been likened to Armageddon by Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger.
"It didn't have Sylvester Stallone in it. It's a total disaster," the tiny-testicled governor told his husband as they cuddled up on the couch.
Governor Schwarzenegger assured his husband that "he'd be back" after ducking out to exchange Armageddon for something else.
"When I returned he was shackled up with another man. It was Bruce Willis. Not a complete disaster," Shwarzenegger said.
After fumbling about for the keys to his marital aids, the Californian Governor was called away by Ben Affleck's bride to-be.
"It was like Armageddon. I was glad I wasn't on the wrong side. We had a fire, so it wasn't a total disaster," Affleck told his beloved.
His beloved, none other than Matt Damon, and he, "stimulated" by Schwarzenegger's choice of movies, could only watch on.
"It's hotter than Hell," Damon corrected reporters who were huddled around the fireplace watching the movie, as well.
Scharzenegger, unable to exchange his "rental", was said to be "burning up" about the fire, as well, which also was a "let-down".
"The entire evening was a total disaster. All I ever wanted was a bit of sodomy. Instead we had the fire from hell," he said.
This post, very revealing, has nothing to do with the to-dos and to-don'ts of the micro-world, according to future Orble chief, ladder-climber and two-faced for his own good, Norm.
According to him, this post, x number of words and directed at blogger y, is really about some important information that must be conveyed, or we'll all die a hideous death.
The hideous death, unavoidable but for the important information contained in the kernel, will be imminent if steps aren't taken to avoid that bus that has your name on it, Mercedes.
The post, garnering over a hundred comments from intelligent and outraged supporters of freedoms everywhere, has been rudey plucked from its rightful place at the top of the tree.
The hideous death, happy in the knowledge that the information needed to avoid it will be denied of many, is waiting for all those innocents who don't know how to cross the street.
The post, containing the word 'Orble' in the header and the footer, its goal to deny all and sundry the hideous death that waits on the undercarriage of that bus, is written real good.
The post contains no fewer than x number of words and n of covert references to blogger y, which would be lost on anyone not familiar with the righteousness of my position.
The position, earned through x number of years in profession y, has led Norm, the future head of your family tree, to believe you have no idea about why I'm so indignant about y.
BEIRUT - Barack Obama's election as U.S. president cheered many Arabs and Iranians driven to anger or despair by George W. Bush's policies over the past eight years.
But his appointment of Judge Paula Abdul as the new chief of the White House has many Arabs calling for their camels in what they see as a move described by some as 'a move that's a bit hard to describe'.
The problem for Senator Obama is that Paula Abdul, a supreme Judge, is capable of many unusual moves which Arabs, content to sit around smoking and plotting soap-operas, see as 'unworkable'.
On paper the moves of Abdul are extremely innovative, but it's her face, worse than 'a-hit-and-run', that have many Iranians calling for others to 'clean up their act' and, the repatriation of Judge Marcia Hines.
While this seems a step in the right direction, many Arabs, counting the cost of wearing white, are convinced that Judge Hines, in favour of public beheadings, will bring 'much needed' coffee to the table.
The dilemma Obama faces is that Judge Hines, 'a throat like a strangler's forearm', will not return to the country of her origin for fear of her livelihood, which she has used to keep her daughter in her shadow.
Naturally enough, the Arabs and Iranians, calling for coffee, are not interested in the plight of a pair of Judges, Abdul and Hines, who they believe are 'behind the move' to ban their right to cut your head off.
Family-plannng counsellor and TV evangelist Jerry Springer has invited the bickering and incestuous children of the blogging community on to 'to sort out who's in bed with who'.
"As far as I know I'm not projecting my hostility for my family onto people I've never met who remind me in some way of members of my family." said one self-aware blogger.
"I have absolutely no skeletons in my closet, apart from the remains of my family," they went on, as Jerry, whipping the crowd into a frenzy, introduced a ghost from their past.
The ghost, the forgotten father of the family, appeared on stage just as his children, acting like the adults they are, went to bed together and revealed hidden aspects of themselves.
"I'll show you yours, if you show me yours," one revealed to another as matters took a turn. "It's not fair! She's picking on me! He's making faces!" was the general outcry from the stage.
Jerry, taking questions to the audience, had to explain the intricacies of the rivalries before the audience, deeply incensed by the burning of perfumed sticks, posed a few curly ones.
"Jesus, if I ever found out that the person I was sleeping with wasn't my mother I'd kill someone. My father is largely responsible," came a comment from the cheap seats.
"I find it interesting that you're all related. You all draw strength from the presence of one another and yet you wish each other out of existence," came a comment from another.
Jerry, finishing the show on his usual note of hope, gave those of us at home a sobering reminder that everything, virtually, is just a bunch of highly monitored characters.
Until next time, take care of yourselves and each other.
A Thesaurus, a reptile capable of finding big words where only little ones are, has become a fossil in a stunning metamorphosis that has fueled speculation of impending doom.
"I looked up, and I saw all these words that were related to other words and I couldn't look up any more because I could feel myself becoming petrified or scared or fearful or frightened or paralysed or numbed or afraid or speechless," the Thesaurus said.
The Thesaurus, a close relative of the Dictionary which is another big book with lots of things to say about lots of things, has become so heavy that it just can't stand to look inside itself to find some definition.
"The impending doom that has been speculated or prognosticated or anticipated or predicted is a little bit of a concern or worry but you won't find me giving you any meaning to your lives or existences or breathing," the Thesaurus stated.
"Language may be in a contstant state of flux but that won't stop me looking to myself when I need to find a big thing where only a little thing is. I can say that much better. Let me." the Thesaurus, appealing to your rears, pleaded.
"The obnoxious predicament of the aforementioned communicational apparatus is in a perpetual condition of kinetic energetic intorpidity, however this won't deter this personage from proclaiming an injury while deliberately baiting those that I've claimed perpertrators of the inurement," the Thesaurus said, clarifying things.
"I don't think I need to define things," the Thesaurus, clearly enamoured or fond of hearing its own voice, tolled. "All I need to do is constantly refer to myself in a circuitous fashion," the cold-blooded creature explained, looking inside itself.
Professor of Drama at the Institute for the Clinically Inane and lifelong patroniser of the artists, Norm has weighed into the debate about what constitutes Comedy with a stunning display of his own errant thinking.
"I'm here to say that I'm against Comic Relief. It's either all a joke or none of it is. There is no middleground," Norm, standing in the middle of Tragedy and Comedy, stood up and told the fans who were expecting a fit of laughter.
"This way to the fitting room," he said, as he thought for a moment and clarified some butter before launching a viscous attack on the sentences of others. "The idea that comedy should be infused with tragedy makes me want to laugh until I cry. The other way around," the Professor lectured his strides.
His strides, a fabulous pair of threadbare numbers with a pair of pockets here and a seam running through his anus and up through his scrotum and up to the very tip of his unmentionable, have taken on tragic proportions.
"If they could, they'd probably want me to fly by something other than the seat of themselves," the Prof demonstrated for the adoring whores. "Strides have been made for man to wear and that's that!" he empathised.
"How can I demonstrate how I feel about Comedy relieving Tragedy?" the classically trained blower of his own strumpet mused, before regurgitating something he had long since thought he had passed.
"Comedy through Tragedy. Tragedy through Comedy." he projectiled, "Not a bit of Comedy in the background of a Tragedy or vice versa," the latin-lover crooned, as the adoring whores' undies took fright and lauded the stooge.
Tragedy and Comedy, alternating ends of the Dramatic Art, are, it has been speculated, just two masks, one weeping and one laughing; they have as much to do with real life as the markings of a savage predator, I'm asking.
A man with a megaphone, dissatisfied with the suppliers of his megaphone, has addressed the outlet from whence his came with a folly of abuse delivered with the megaphone they supplied him with.
"I AM UNAWARE OF THE IRONY OF TELLING YOU HOW DISSATISFIED I AM WITH THIS DEVICE THAT YOU GAVE ME WITH THIS DEVICE THAT YOU GAVE ME," the man with a megaphone told the suppliers of the megaphone.
"I CAN REACH A LARGE AUDIENCE WITH THIS THING, BUT I CAN'T STAND THOSE WHO GAVE IT TO ME BECAUSE THEY DIDN'T PAY ME WHEN I BOUGHT IT," the man with the megaphone told the man in the next cubicle.
"IT'S COST ME MY LIFE, MY LIVELIHOOD. I CAN'T KEEP A SECRET, ANYMORE. HAVE YOU EVER TRIED GOING TO A LIBRARY WITH ONE OF THESE? WHISPERING, I LOVE YOU?" the man with the megaphone confessed.
"I BLAME THE SUPPLIERS. SURE, I DO. NOT ONLY DID I HAVE TO PAY FOR IT, BUT THEY HAVE THE AUDACITY TO DESIGN A PRODUCT THAT WORKS BETTER THEN THE REST," the man wih the megaphone revealed.
"THE ONE BENEFIT DERIVED FROM IT WOULD HAVE TO BE THAT I CAN GET MY MESSAGE OF SELF-AWARENESS OUT TO THE PEOPLE," the man with the megaphone said, bouncing his message off the toilet walls.
The internet, compared in some circles to a toilet, is not a toilet with personal messages on the walls, jokes, crap, hot-air, cold floors, fans, windows, bars, locks, signs, bins, seats, shared needles or noisy drips.
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